Slim Luck
Seeing as how you suffer from the illusion that I tell you everything let me clear up a few things about my driving record. And let's just forget about that thing with me chauffeurring all those Houston lawyers around during New Orleans JazzFest 97.
Other than the story of the winter I fell into that deep rain-filled ditch--(I remember coming up once, telling my brother to wait, and then going down again heavy with winter coat and hard soled shoes with eyes open in muddy ditch water, seeing the bubbles around me, before coming up the second time to find a floating piece of construction lumber to hold onto) when I was seven and my brother's race across North Dallas farmland (that is now developed miles in all directions) and his busting through the back door of my best friend's house while the nine of them ate dinner and yelling Jimfellinaditchfullofwater!!! which caused the oldest to leap from the table and race back across North Dallas farmland to save me--the stories my family most like to reminisce about are the ones where I got caught sneaking out the car when I was fourteen and fifteen. It is good family fun and is a context in which I enjoy being the center of attention, I will admit.
On a recent visit to Dallas a brother commented that after our mother dies he cannot foresee the occasions that will bring the remaining six of us together. Seeing as how we're having a pretty hard time of it while the mom is still alive I had to concede he was most probably right. So when we are together I like playing the role that is most natural to the dynamic of us as a family, the role of the youngest ( yet greying ) rascal, the one of us most out of step, when the truth more likely points to each of us as misfits in our own unique ways, as befits our upbringing. It was in my home an orthodox of Christian Existentialism, if such a thing is possible. The original eight of us were so individually autonomous it is more amazing that any of us still connect at all than it is that a few of us have real (or imagined?) differences. Even the twins seem to hardly recognize each other these days.
My brother recited a tale of me getting caught with the car after he and his twin and the two parents came back early from a rained out baseball game. His take on it was that I came in and confronted everyone with a big shit-eating grin and an attitude of whaddaya gonna do about it? I don't remember this caper at all, and as for my attitude, although they may have been the first to interpret my expression in that way they would not be the last. I know I have offended people with that expression he was referring to. But its like really shy people being accused (inaccurately) of snobbery. The shit eating grin is sometimes a grimace, which in fairness, in its own right, in particular contexts, can be offensive too. But whaddaya? Making a living outta digression? Lookin' for absolution? Also, I do have and frequently use a shit eating grin which can be taken at face value. I'm so complex.
But it may have been that particular car stealing event (although I think it was another one) which a day or two later led one of those twins to beat me savagely with a long metal pole while I reclined on one of the den sofas, or the beating may have been the result of a cumulative disgust with my overall anarchistic (relative to my solid Methodist upbringing) behavior, the car stealing being simply the final straw. I do remember the oration that went along with the beating was about the danger I was putting myself and others in by driving before my time. This incident I guess was my first real life confrontation with irony. And I'm just kidding about the beating being savage. The hits were hardly more than love taps. My brother was then and is now, no dummy, and I think he too understood the irony of beating up someone to prevent that person from hurting himself, or others. I really only bring it up because it was such an uncharacteristic display of anger on that brother's part, his and the other twin's preferred methods usually involving psychological terror, especially effective when they did tag teaming. It was mostly laughs in my family though, although I would have to think about it harder than I care to right now to figure out at who's expense did we laugh. And anyway I was little more than a room and boarder at that N. Dallas house from '64 to '77, spending all day everyday down the street with my pal, where I learned long before my peers about Zappa, and Zen, and other things not taught in the lower level Sunday school classes. It was usually one of the twins who were sent down to inform me that supper was now being served.
But here's the thing I really wanted to get at here. During my recent trip to Dallas one of the last things my mother relayed to me was the first story, the one I'm not sure I'm going to live up to, as it attributes to me almost super human abilities, or more likely, just luck, which you hate to think about too much because of the nature of it, which is to eventually run out.
This at the house on East Kiest Blvd. (a busy six lane thorougfare divided by a thin median strip) in South Oak Cliff, where I lived my first five years. Jimmie and brother Stevie Ray Vaughn lived in this neighborhood south of Downtown Dallas for some years, and it is also the neighborhood to which Lee Harvey Oswald ran after his truly amazing sniper job in '63. We, the Louises, knew neither the Vaughns nor the Oswalds, I mention, regretfully.
The story is simple. As a toddler, I escaped the family compound by maneuvering through or around several obstacles, the final one being an (apparently) unclosed chain link gate, and made it to the front yard. As I always heard it I toddled to the street and across three lanes of traffic and plopped down on the median. A truck driver stopped at the Illinois Ave. light rescued me and brought me to the nearest house, asking my hysterical mother did I belong to her. That's the whole story. But the way my mother told it this time was a little different. As I have previously mentioned, at 84, she seems to be having minor problems with her short term memory. Her memories of the distant past however seem to be sharper than ever. So I don't know if this version is definitive or not, but her addition of a couple of small details make the story much more interesting to me. Her version has me not on the median but sitting in the middle of the street, and cars are lined up past the light in the street in front of the house, not honking, waiting for someone to do something. For how long I don't know. How long should we wait before acting? The not honking was the other detail left out of previous stories. Preternatural silence. I had always imagined it noisey as cars whizzed by on both sides of me. That's all I really wanted to say.
My first escape was in about 1962 or 63. I carefully studied the workings of the door lock, but kept the knowledge to myself, waiting for the right moment. While Mom was busy dealing with groceries, cooking or perhaps dealing with the noisy infant she had brought home some months earlier, I reached up to turn the door knob, slipped out and down the stairs, and walked down to the street corner. Westheimer was a buzz of cars and trucks of all kinds. What an amazing sight it all was.
I thought of Chappaquiddick as I read the beginning of this post.
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Seeing as how you suffer from the illusion that I tell you everything let me clear up a few things about my driving record. And let's just forget about that thing with me chauffeurring all those Houston lawyers around during New Orleans JazzFest 97.
Other than the story of the winter I fell into that deep rain-filled ditch--(I remember coming up once, telling my brother to wait, and then going down again heavy with winter coat and hard soled shoes with eyes open in muddy ditch water, seeing the bubbles around me, before coming up the second time to find a floating piece of construction lumber to hold onto) when I was seven and my brother's race across North Dallas farmland (that is now developed miles in all directions) and his busting through the back door of my best friend's house while the nine of them ate dinner and yelling Jimfellinaditchfullofwater!!! which caused the oldest to leap from the table and race back across North Dallas farmland to save me--the stories my family most like to reminisce about are the ones where I got caught sneaking out the car when I was fourteen and fifteen. It is good family fun and is a context in which I enjoy being the center of attention, I will admit.
On a recent visit to Dallas a brother commented that after our mother dies he cannot foresee the occasions that will bring the remaining six of us together. Seeing as how we're having a pretty hard time of it while the mom is still alive I had to concede he was most probably right. So when we are together I like playing the role that is most natural to the dynamic of us as a family, the role of the youngest ( yet greying ) rascal, the one of us most out of step, when the truth more likely points to each of us as misfits in our own unique ways, as befits our upbringing. It was in my home an orthodox of Christian Existentialism, if such a thing is possible. The original eight of us were so individually autonomous it is more amazing that any of us still connect at all than it is that a few of us have real (or imagined?) differences. Even the twins seem to hardly recognize each other these days.
My brother recited a tale of me getting caught with the car after he and his twin and the two parents came back early from a rained out baseball game. His take on it was that I came in and confronted everyone with a big shit-eating grin and an attitude of whaddaya gonna do about it? I don't remember this caper at all, and as for my attitude, although they may have been the first to interpret my expression in that way they would not be the last. I know I have offended people with that expression he was referring to. But its like really shy people being accused (inaccurately) of snobbery. The shit eating grin is sometimes a grimace, which in fairness, in its own right, in particular contexts, can be offensive too. But whaddaya? Making a living outta digression? Lookin' for absolution? Also, I do have and frequently use a shit eating grin which can be taken at face value. I'm so complex.
But it may have been that particular car stealing event (although I think it was another one) which a day or two later led one of those twins to beat me savagely with a long metal pole while I reclined on one of the den sofas, or the beating may have been the result of a cumulative disgust with my overall anarchistic (relative to my solid Methodist upbringing) behavior, the car stealing being simply the final straw. I do remember the oration that went along with the beating was about the danger I was putting myself and others in by driving before my time. This incident I guess was my first real life confrontation with irony. And I'm just kidding about the beating being savage. The hits were hardly more than love taps. My brother was then and is now, no dummy, and I think he too understood the irony of beating up someone to prevent that person from hurting himself, or others. I really only bring it up because it was such an uncharacteristic display of anger on that brother's part, his and the other twin's preferred methods usually involving psychological terror, especially effective when they did tag teaming. It was mostly laughs in my family though, although I would have to think about it harder than I care to right now to figure out at who's expense did we laugh. And anyway I was little more than a room and boarder at that N. Dallas house from '64 to '77, spending all day everyday down the street with my pal, where I learned long before my peers about Zappa, and Zen, and other things not taught in the lower level Sunday school classes. It was usually one of the twins who were sent down to inform me that supper was now being served.
But here's the thing I really wanted to get at here. During my recent trip to Dallas one of the last things my mother relayed to me was the first story, the one I'm not sure I'm going to live up to, as it attributes to me almost super human abilities, or more likely, just luck, which you hate to think about too much because of the nature of it, which is to eventually run out.
This at the house on East Kiest Blvd. (a busy six lane thorougfare divided by a thin median strip) in South Oak Cliff, where I lived my first five years. Jimmie and brother Stevie Ray Vaughn lived in this neighborhood south of Downtown Dallas for some years, and it is also the neighborhood to which Lee Harvey Oswald ran after his truly amazing sniper job in '63. We, the Louises, knew neither the Vaughns nor the Oswalds, I mention, regretfully.
The story is simple. As a toddler, I escaped the family compound by maneuvering through or around several obstacles, the final one being an (apparently) unclosed chain link gate, and made it to the front yard. As I always heard it I toddled to the street and across three lanes of traffic and plopped down on the median. A truck driver stopped at the Illinois Ave. light rescued me and brought me to the nearest house, asking my hysterical mother did I belong to her. That's the whole story. But the way my mother told it this time was a little different. As I have previously mentioned, at 84, she seems to be having minor problems with her short term memory. Her memories of the distant past however seem to be sharper than ever. So I don't know if this version is definitive or not, but her addition of a couple of small details make the story much more interesting to me. Her version has me not on the median but sitting in the middle of the street, and cars are lined up past the light in the street in front of the house, not honking, waiting for someone to do something. For how long I don't know. How long should we wait before acting? The not honking was the other detail left out of previous stories. Preternatural silence. I had always imagined it noisey as cars whizzed by on both sides of me. That's all I really wanted to say.
- jimlouis 2-19-2002 8:52 pm
My first escape was in about 1962 or 63. I carefully studied the workings of the door lock, but kept the knowledge to myself, waiting for the right moment. While Mom was busy dealing with groceries, cooking or perhaps dealing with the noisy infant she had brought home some months earlier, I reached up to turn the door knob, slipped out and down the stairs, and walked down to the street corner. Westheimer was a buzz of cars and trucks of all kinds. What an amazing sight it all was.
- mark 3-02-2002 9:23 am [add a comment]
I thought of Chappaquiddick as I read the beginning of this post.
- steve 3-03-2002 4:25 am [add a comment]